


Even In Victory, There is sadness

by Hemry64



Series: Original one shots [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: One Shot, Original Character(s), Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 16:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hemry64/pseuds/Hemry64
Summary: Mags finally gets her revenge, but was it all worth it in the end?





	Even In Victory, There is sadness

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the result of me just pulling stuff out of my brain and putting it all together. I'm almost scared by how depressing the ending is but as I was taught by the Monsters of Verity series, not all stories can end happily. 
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy and comment. Let me know what you think and if I should seek help for how this ends.  
> As another side note, There might be more original works on here in the future, all depends on if I write them.

“Why? Why can’t I do this?! I’ve waited my whole damn life to find you, to slice your throat and be done with this! But now, I can’t even bring myself to look you in the eye! What is wrong with me?!” Slowly I turn away from where he stands, pinned to a wall by crossbow bolts. 

“It’s as I’ve tried to tell you, without me, this country, this world is going to wither and--,” Quickly I spin and force myself to come within inches of his face.

“Shut up! Without you, we wouldn’t even be in this mess! Without you, I wouldn’t have had to grow up orphaned out on the streets going days, weeks, without food! Did you have to watch your own family contemplate kicking you out of the house from the crack in the door? Did you have to witness them willingly hand you over to so-called ‘Protective Care’ Officers?” Even with bolts pinning him to a wall, his expression is unreadable as he quietly shakes his head. “Then tell me, Mark. How is it letting you live will prevent other kids like me, from being given to their executioners?” 

Closing his eyes he exhales, when he opens his eyes all I can see is that same steely determination he had the day before I escaped. “Because Mags, I’m the only one holding this nation together. Both parties are at each other's throats, waiting for the other to slip up and sweep in to reap the spoils. I’m the nation's mediator, and in turn, this nation is the world's mediator. Why is it that Kaskanna hasn’t already declared nuclear war on Tabbania? Or Tabbania on Crestilio?” Silently he stares at me, for a moment, as if expecting an answer. When I don’t respond he, again, sighs. 

“Because dear Mags, We are bigger, stronger than them all. I instill the fear needed to keep them away from that red button. They know the moment war is declared we will sweep in to stop them. This nation is the peacekeeper of the world, and it needs to last for millennia to come!” He stares never wavered, still, doesn’t. It’s as if he's expecting me to have some sort of revelation, a change of heart. Instead, I smile, a giggle escaping my lips. 

Quickly the giggle turns into laughter, then into to full-on hysteria until I almost double over in pain from laughing so hard. When I clear the tears from my eyes, Marks bold expression is gone. Replacing it is a mix of shock and horror. This only broadens my already wide grin. 

“Mark, I must say I’m honestly surprised you don’t get it,” Do I even understand why I found his words so funny? Yes. “what you just said, why it's cleared my mind.” A glimmer of hope slides behind his eyes. But as I draw closer, the machete in my hand raising ever so slowly, that hope is quickly extinguished. “I could care less about this world. Even less about what you think could happen without your, ‘Oh so precious life’!” With newfound ease I place the blade against his throat, a trickle of blood sliding down his throat. 

“If the world ends after you die, then so be it. Then it was destined to wither and die like you claim it will.” 

Quietly Mark whispers, “you’re mad!” The words cause my heart to beat like a drum in my ears, sudden excitement and pleasure coursing through my veins. As tension grows in my shoulders and arms, my grip tightening the hilt of the machete, I lean in and whisper, “You’re right. So why should I settle for just slitting your throat, might as well finish the job and take your pretty little head.” I can feel tremble beneath me, the reaction sending shivers down my spine. 

“Wait for me in Hell, Mark.” With every ounce of strength in me, I push the blade into his throat. Hot crimson blood begins to coat my clothing, my hands. The feel of tissue and muscle being severed can be felt through the blade as if I were it. With a final satisfying yet stomach-churning thunk, I pull back, leaving the blade embedded into the wooden wall. 

For a moment I just stand and admire my own handy work. There lay Mark McGalister's lifeless body on the blood-soaked carpet. And there sat his head, precariously resting on the very blade that took my friends lives. After what could’ve been an hour I walk out of his office, I stalk down the halls and take in the faces of horror from Marks associates and personal guards. Any combat between them and the resistance is halted at the sight of me. Not a word was uttered as I continued my slow walk towards the express elevator. A few resistance members close in behind me, others standing there stunned by the sight of me. Mark's personal guards run like madmen in the direction of his office after the reality of my current state of wellbeing sinks in. 

Leaving the build was quite literally like a walk in a graveyard. Bodies were strewn across the halls, all in various states of dismemberment. Some resistance, some security, But there stood Gorgie. He stood motionless at the entrance as I neared. 

“It's over then? Mark is gone?” He calls from the broken doorway. I simply nod my head and keep walking, past him, down the steps and down the sidewalk. “Wait, where are you doing?!” 

Slowing my pace I look over my shoulder at him. Any happiness he might have had was replaced by confusion. “I’m going home Gorgie, I did what I needed to. Now I could care less about this worthless country. If you succeed in installing that Government you came up with, congratulations. If not, oh well, It's not my problem.” Before he says anything I pick up my pace and round the corner. 

It was dusk when I found myself in front of my childhood home. Any other foot traffic had kept clear from me at the sight of the drying blood all over my clothing and hands. Only a few tried to stop me and ask if I was ok, I just brushed them off and kept going.

Slowly I walked up the door and knocked. But instead of my mom or dad answering, a small old man opening the door with a rather shocked expression. When questioning where the past residents had gone he shook his head and answered he didn’t know. 

“Then… can I see the spare room? The one on the right next to the half bath.” I don’t know if he let in out of pity for how tired I’d sounded, or the fact that I was covered in blood, but he did. It was like time had halted as I entered the quiet home. It was arranged differently from what it had been, but in my eyes, I could see everything the way it had been. The worn couch in the center of the living room, flanked by two equally worn recliners. The kitchen fridge lined with drawings I had made for mom or dad. 

The old man just stood to the side as I showed myself to my old room. It was barren save for the single bed in the corner of the room. 

Taking a seat on the bed I looked around the room. I could see where my posters and drawings had covered the leftmost wall. My desk in the right corner in front of me, next to the closet that was filled with a rainbow of clothing. Slowly I lowered my head, the memories of what used to be dragging me into a quiet cold. But here at my foot, was the faint but present stain of peach nail polish on the carpet. The very nail polish I dropped as my mother and father opened the door and presented me to Marks executioners. 

As that memory played out in my head, over and over again, tears began to slide down my face. Soon a sob was dragged out from the back of my throat as the cold darkness enveloped me. 

And so I sat there and wept. Even in my victory, all I could think of was the absent look of sorrow or dread on my parent's faces as I was dragged out. I wanted to go home so badly, but my home was gone. Never to be found again.


End file.
